Roses I Send to You
by immortalViridian
Summary: Mysteriously, on the 25th anniversary since the end of the war against the Capitol, Katniss dies. The cause is found-poison-but even after 6 years no one knows who the culprit could be, nor why they used Nightlock of all things to murder the former Mockingjay. Thus, it is up to her daughter, Carolina, to secretly search for answers. Will she find more than what she bargained for?
1. Epilogue: BLACK

**_~Roses I Send to You~_**

* * *

**Summary:**

Mysteriously, on the 25th anniversary since the end of the war against the Capitol, Katniss dies. The cause is found-poison-but even after 6 years no one knows who the culprit could be, nor why they used Nightlock of all things to murder the former Mockingjay. Thus, it is up to her daughter, Carolina, to secretly search for answers. Will she find more than what she bargained for?

* * *

**Epilogue - BLACK**

_~there's no such thing as a black rose. they're only very dark red, like blood.~_

I'm up, and dawn is still far from approaching; yet, all of the lights in my house are on, and in the corridor, a plastic vase of dark burgundy roses rests on an old scratched wooden table, directly sent from District Four and kissed with early morning dew. The windows are shut but they reflect deep woods around two sides and a small brook in the back, while the walls and ceiling are whitewashed, clean and polished from diligent care. A soft thud and then a few more resounding in my ears, I can already hear the supply truck driver knocking on the storefront's door downstairs.

A beautiful woman in a turquoise dress floats over to my father's side, his eyes turned towards her small figure. Her hair is dark but strands of light auburn are highlighted by the soft lighting in our house though I have to squint because it's covered by a white silk shawl. Her eyes are the color of a sea in a squall and like my dad's eyes, are surrounded by wrinkles gained from smiling without end. It's Aunt Annie. She's not our biological aunt, but she's the closest person to one, since our real one is dead. Next to her are a man about five years older, and their three sons who glance around and shuffle awkwardly, fixing their hastily put-on ties when they think no one is looking. The oldest is in his mid-twenties, handsome and with strikingly bronze hair that contrasts with his black haired younger brothers. They usually look at him with envy though right now they are focused on the main attraction, for lack of a better explanation.

In this home, no one is smiling. Some are crying, silently, though that mainly applies to my father. His blond hair streaked with silver, he already has more than enough stress, being in charge of the family bakery. Still, he blinks his blue eyes and steels them, building his façade. He says in a firm voice, "Carol, please go to bed. Now's not the time to be up."

I yawn and rub my eyes. "I heard a noise, and then Auntie Annie and everyone else came. Doesn't that mean that we should get them settled in?"

"Yes, normally…" His voice is tight and a clenching uncomfortable as he begins tremulously, but eventually, he reasserts himself. "Right now, it's too late for you to be up, so go to bed, and when you wake up you can help. The grownups have to talk now." He and the others form a barricade, preventing me from seeing his room.

"Tell Mommy goodnight and that I love her, OK? She's probably sleeping though," I chirp cheerfully before tiptoeing off to bed.

"Of course we will," Aunt Annie has to say because for some reason Dad has gone dead silent. She trails after me, helps tuck me in, and kisses me on the forehead, but her smile is blank and her eyes have a faraway look in them. I only shrug, and as soon as I close my eyes, I fall into a dreamless sleep that is so light I feel that I'm hearing everyone behind a black curtain.

Some whispers and murmurs are unintelligible though a soft sound permeates throughout all the hours I pretend to be asleep. When I stay still, I realize that it's my father weeping in the bathroom that's in between my brother's bedroom and my own, where he believes no one can hear him or at least, ignore him for the meanwhile.

Further away, I can hear the discussion of my aunt and her immediate family in my parents' room.

"She's dead," says the man with salt-and-pepper hair. He's our uncle from Annie's second marriage, the husband whom she had met in the southernmost region of District Four after her first son was born.

"Poor Katniss," Annie whispers, her voice faint but surging with sorrow. "Let's stay here for now. They need us, especially at this horrible time."

Her son, the one with the bronze hair, steps loudly as he approaches my father. "Peeta, are you sure you have no clue as to how she died? I mean, you slept right next to her, and there she was, dead."

My father's voice is bleak and mournful, as if he's announcing his own death, rather than my mother's. "I have no clue. I don't even know how she _died_. I'm a horrible husband; I could never truly protect her from these kind of things, but come on! _Come on!_ It's been twenty—I dunno—fucking years, for God's sake! We're supposed to be safe!"

"Twenty five years," Finnick Jr. corrects. "It's the exact year the last Games are supposed to happen."

The sharp intake of breath from my father is what sends my blood chilling.

I didn't know what those "Games" were—I was only ten then—but already I was sick of hearing this teen's voice. I tried burying my head in my pillow to shut him out and ended up falling asleep, but according to my brother, I was restless and made so much noise that I was the only reason why he was up so early in the morning. Frankly, I couldn't care less. This morning or night or whatever was when I found out that my mom died. For six years, _six years_, they couldn't detect why, aside from that it was poisoning, poisoning from Nightlock apparently. That very word is why my father has become so withdrawn, why the entire family is busy converging in one isolated district where we all can wallow in the misery that's not over. I'd hate to imagine what other kinds of atrocities that my father plans on revealing to me, but that one word; it elicits sparks, and when there's sparks, they ignite a fire that sends me after my mother's murderer.

Nightlock is why I can remember it as if it was just yesterday night.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This is my first time writing a fanfic. Please review and provide constructive criticism. This story is far from perfect, and I know it needs it, even though I'm horrible at taking it. But it's like medicine; what's needed is needed.

I know I've brought in a lot of unexplained characters who aren't canon, and already, I am on thin ice trying to expand on the more mysterious canons, but I plan to expand on them later, and maybe even give them semi-important roles. Also, I will elaborate on the names of the characters later on as well.

On another note, I'd like some help with ideas. I want to know what fellow fanfic writers and Hunger Game fans have to say and think about the children of our beloved protagonists. Maybe I'm portraying them a bit unrealistically, or maybe they don't have a lot of personality. To be honest, I seldom even have a concept of them. I wrote this grasping on a straw that I'm slowly expanding onto. After all, this all branched from a small prompt. So if you guys have any ideas for developing characters, the world, or the plot overall, I'd appreciate it if you'd share them.

Thank you!


	2. Chapter One: BLACK and ORANGE

_**~Roses I Send to You~**_

* * *

**Summary:**

Mysteriously, on the 25th anniversary since the end of the war against the Capitol, Katniss dies. The cause is found-poison-but even after 6 years no one knows who the culprit could be, nor why they used Nightlock of all things to murder the former Mockingjay. Thus, it is up to her daughter, Carolina, to secretly search for answers. Will she find more than what she bargained for?

* * *

**Chapter One - BLACK and ORANGE**

_~death is not an end. the black rose represents the unknown journey that takes us back to the beginning. is that not what you ask to see?~_

The last day of October, Halloween, and no one can bother to celebrate Halloween. None of my family has a penchant for parties, though we can sure as hell dance our feet off, which isn't anything we hope to do tonight. I spend this night like any other: contemplating. I contemplate my future, my love life, and my death, but more importantly, I contemplate about the journey I'm about to embark on. Of course, I can't do it alone. I don't want to upset nearly every person in my life though, so I ponder carefully about who to choose as my loyal companions. The only people I know are my family, and the Odairs. Apparently, we also have more contacts, but I'm not sure whether to call them. It would be interesting though. From what I've heard though, the names and numbers on these faded yellow papers, all tightly bound up in one big book, stir up tension within the family.

I think that that book, full of people, is just like me. I'm a troublemaker on a colossal scale, according to my dad, and apparently, my mom was the same way. A lot of my family members say that I bear a disturbing resemblance to her. It's why my aunt sometimes finds it hard to look at me in the eyes, until she finds my father's sky blue in them. It's why I force myself to gather black roses in the forest that I've learned to hunt in. I'm not one for bows and arrows, nor am I for knives. I don't have a single shred of weight lifting ability in me either. That's Dad's job, and my brother's. To be honest, I'm not a very good hunter at all. I'm better at survival skills, I guess? Regardless, I think that if I can get a grip on some kind of weapon I've never used before-hell, it could even be a taser gun-then I might find a fighting chance at becoming some kind of hunter. Or maybe, I'm just completely hopeless. I force myself to cheer up; I have no reason to despair. Maybe I don't have to fight, or if I do, I'll get enough practice to actually get good at it. Whenever I do though, it'll be after I left.

Right now though, once I'm done gathering the black roses, I look for deep orange ones, not coral ones. I seek sunset orange roses throughout the odds and ends of the dark, imposing forest. My father really likes the color, so when he inquires where I've gone, he'd be pleased to find them. Although I doubt that he would be pleased in the slightest about having those dark burgundy ones to complement them. Still, I insist that these black ones are necessary to help the orange ones decorate our house. If we can't give out candy, we can at least shed some innocent beauty onto this little bubble we call our home. My father doesn't like candy. I do, and my brother does, but the candy we buy is only for the baked goods that we can never ever touch unless if somehow, in the process of making them, go wrong. This, of course, is fairly obvious but our father tries to prevent us from eating them. These round, boldly colored candies are said to cause meaningless addictions that do nothing to improve our lives, but I argue that they can cause at least the smallest and simplest of joys. He points out that we have plenty to be happy about, though like always, neither of us actually look like that statement was true. Lately, this year, it seems loaded.

We had hoped that after five years, the case would be solved and justice dealt. We hoped that we wouldn't have to waste our lives waiting for answers. Even if we spent our lives dedicated to the work and education the odds have borne to us in our favor-it still isn't enough. We are on a tipping point, on thin ice, waiting for our troubles to be thawed out, because if we risk anymore, we'll lose even more.

Curious, I ask my father how he knows that, when he hasn't taken a chance yet. He says that I don't know anything, and that it's better that way. He apologizes for his harsh words, and then he restates his point in softer words, but he still remains firm. I simply try and ignore this conversation, but it haunts my mind as I go through menial, mind-numbing chores daily. It's enough to push me over the edge he has been trying to pull us and hold us onto, and I pack many sets of clothes and many packages of food and a survival kit; I stock up, spend my allowances carefully yet generously, and plan for the journey ahead. Dad and my brother know what I'm doing, but they don't stop me. My brother only questions just about everything that I do. His small talk is aggravating yet gratifying, since he brings up more than good points.

On the other hand, my father is just as melancholy as he was _that night_, his eyes a soft blue and welling up with silent, invisible but present tears. He remains mute and gives me a glance as I prepare for the journey ahead. Again, the family converges, and my grandmother plans to visit the bakery on the very day I plan to depart.

* * *

_~ deep orange speaks the language of passion. whatever intensity it may be, especially around family, it means i love you, and it also says in one image: you honor me.~_

Grandma Everdeen stares into my eyes, arctic ice gazing into pools of spring water. She's smiling amiably enough, but it's more than obvious that she's dying to get past the chit chat we've been wasting our time with while eating wild groose. I give her mercy and say, "It's good to have you here, Grandma. Why're you here though?"

"Oh, Carolina, you know," she replies, her eyes darting back in forth between my father and I.

"Yes, they do," I mumble in repetition, pretending to act like I'm covering up the nonexistent fact that I didn't know about it, but it only gives what I'm thinking away slightly.

She only sighs. "You think that the investigation party that we've poured a lot of our money and desperation into isn't helping. You believe that they have no right to interfere when they're doing absolutely nothing helpful, so that you, deciding that you are way more competent to do the job completely right."

The old woman makes no effort to cover up her true thoughts, as cold as they may be. "And you, sadly, aren't that way. However, you still have the audacity to think that you are, by all means, the only fighting chance we have."

As arrogant as it sounds, that _is_ what I'm thinking, but I know that my train of thought runs deeper. What she has touched upon is barely part of the surface, and judging by Grandma Everdeen's expression, she knows it too. I remain silent, knowing that any attempts to refute those thoughts or justify them will look pathetic and in vain. But I am not helpless. Like my father during the night of my mother's death, I steel my blue eyes and look at her straight in the eyes. A tiny hint of a fleeting smile plays on the curving lips of her wrinkled face, but she is far from over when it comes with dealing with her business.

Her mind, like Annie's is frail, and though she has trained herself to hide it, staring in her eyes reveals her soul. And like Annie's, her soul is a glass castle: one that has been broken and rebuilt so many times that it is riddled with scars. Yet it is great and majestic and it puts even the most rowdiest and inattentive people to awe.

I have to quit making so many references to other people—they may be offended—but they're all I know. They are my family, and I am theirs. There is nothing about that fact that we would ever change; however, I listen to her lecture, and most of the stuff she tells me I had predicted over a mile away—literally. Nearing the end, to my surprise, there is one thing that surprises me. "Come over to my place at District Four. We've known you've been packing up since forever even though you're still hopeless and completely unready to take on the responsibility you have been so eager to get. You might as well put these resources to good uses instead of letting them collect dust until you became ready. In that case though, I'm afraid you'd never become ready."

Then she smiles at me gently, but her eyes are filled with grief and bitterness for her losses: her husband and her two only daughters. Soon, determination filters through. "Well, Carolina Primrose Mellark?" Grandma Everdeen impatiently addresses me, "are you going to go or what? You're missing a once in a lifetime offer to relive the horrors that lasted for many decades and have been buried for just as long." She gives a sour remark, but at the end, her words are a tad bit too sincere, and already I see the sweet lady who was broken into despair when she lost nearly everything: except us.

I nod silently, unsure of what to say. I don't know whether to be grateful or to be afraid or excited, so I decide to be all of those at once. Each feeling surges within me in a way that's both agonizing and comforting at the same time. Then, they melt together like my own heart is one giant melting pot made for personal use.

When I take my packed up belongings and store it in a bag, my younger brother comes over and gives his obligatory snide remark: "I hope you have fun. You made Dad mad: _again_."

"Yeah, that's what I do best," I laugh back before sobering my tone. "Tell him I say sorry."

"Do it yourself," he counters. I don't object, throwing my bag on my back and carrying everything else in my arms. "Get back soon." His three last words definitely show that he'll miss me, but the tone is quick to disprove it. A mask so paper thin like that couldn't change what I thought.

"Love you too," I call out to the little dude before sitting down on the sofa in the living room.

My father turns on the soft light of the lamp in between us. "You don't have to do this. Your mother wouldn't want it."

"I know, but it's my life, and it's currently revolving around hers, however I want it to. Whether she likes it or not couldn't change anything."

"You're right, but do you know how selfish you sound like saying that?"

I clear my throat. "Indeed I do."

"And you don't mind?"

"I do."

"Really?"

"Really," I confirm. "You'll see how."

"I'll be waiting," he says glumly. Like always, there's a barrier between me and Peeta Mellark. We're total opposites, and the only thing we share is our favorite color. He proves this by handing me a sunset orange rose from the garden. It's the one thing from Halloween he has kept around this house. For what seems like the first of times, I take a deep breath and smile brightly at him.

"I'll be back home in no time," I promise him, to placate him. Even if we can't get along very well, we still love each other.

"Real or not real?" he still questions.

"Real," I say before pinning the rose in my hair like a hair ornament and getting up. With the creak of the door, I'm out of my home and advancing towards District Four.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Dear _thatgirlinPajamas_, thank you. You flatter me. I have written some pieces of fiction before, but none have ever been anything special, to be honest. This is my first time writing a story from another series, but I have written some other stories before too-just from my own imagination.


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